e on the tail of a
skate. Either accident may be slight or it may be severe.

A sudden exclamation from one of the men while employed in this cleaning
and packing work told that something had happened.

"There goes Martin," growled Joe Stubley; "you can always tell when it's
him, 'cause he don't curse an' swear."

Stubley--or Stubby, as his mates called him--did not intend this for a
compliment by any means, though it may sound like one. Being an
irreligious as well as a stupid man, he held that all who professed
religion were hypocritical and silly. Manliness, in poor Jo's mind,
consisted of swagger, quiet insolence, cool cursing, and general
godlessness. With the exception of Fred Martin, the rest of the crew of
the _Lively Poll_ resembled him in his irreligion, but they were very
different in character,--Lockley, the skipper being genial; Peter Jay,
the mate, very appreciative of humour, though quiet and sedate; Duffy,
jovial and funny; Freeman, kindly, though reckless; and Bob, the
boy-cook, easy-going both as to mind and morals. They all liked Martin,
however, in spite of his religion, for he practised much and preached
little.

"What's wrong?" asked Lockley, who stood at the tiller looking out for
lights ahead.

"Only a bone into my left hand," replied Martin, going on with his
somewhat dirty labours.

"Well that it's no worse, boy," observed Freeman, "for we've got no
medicine-chest to fly to like that lucky Short-Blue fleet."

"That's true, Jim," responded Martin; "I wish we had a Gospel smack with
our fleet, for our souls need repairing as well as our bodies."

"There you go," growled Stubley, flinging down a just finished fish with
a flap of indignation. "A feller can't mention the name o' them mission
craft without rousin' you up to some o' your hypocritical chaff. For my
part, if it wasn't for the medicine-chest and the mittens, I think we'd
be better by a long way without Gospel ships, as ye call 'em. Why, what
good 'ave they done the Short-Blues? I'm sure _we_ doesn't want
churches, or prayin', or psalm-singin' or book--"

"Speak for yourself, Jo," interrupted Puffy.

"Although your head may be as thick as a three-inch plank, through which
nothin' a'most can pass either from books or anything else, you mustn't
think we've bin all built on the same lines. I likes a good book
myself, an', though I don't care about prayin' or psalm-singin', seein'
I don't understand 'em, I say `good luck